


Death Battle

by Itsagrifthing



Category: Red vs Blue
Genre: Death Battle, Fighting, Other, tiny bit of angst?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 09:35:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11620854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsagrifthing/pseuds/Itsagrifthing
Summary: Tucker vs. Agent Washington. Who will win?





	Death Battle

 

Rockslide is icy this particular mornings, frost coating the dew leftover from the night before.  
Tucker and Wash stand across from each other, gripping their rifles tight and glaring so intently a hole nearly begins to burn through the blue helmets.

"Every. Fucking. Day. It's 'get up, run drills, clean the base, fix the tower, run till you starve to death.' I'm sick of it!" Tucker screams. "You act like your a leader, but you're not. Didn't you learn anything from your days at Freelancer? You. Aren't. Shit." Wash gritted his teeth.

"It's not like you help at all. You don't do anything except complain," Wash shoots back. He's had it up to hear with Tucker's bitching. "Don't you know I can see it when you flip me off behind my back?! Don't you know that I can hear you every time you whine and moan even though I'm just trying to help you? You think you're so special, you have that fancy sword, but you don't even know how to use it!"

The air is thick and muddled. Wash's own words sound like they come from a million miles away, but the next sentence Tucker says is clear as day.

"Fuck you Wash." The words aren't playful, or light. Tucker meant it, and in one fluid motion, he whips out his sword (bow-chicka-wow) and powers it up. Wash tenses.

"Really? You want to do this? Now?"

His Freelancer reflexes make him raise his rifle.

And the battle begins.

Tucker charges at Wash, screaming through his helmet. The move was so suicidal, so unexpected, that Wash has just barely enough time to leap to the side. He raises his rifle again, instinctively aiming for the head-- but at the last second he drops it lower towards Tucker's legs and pulls the trigger.

Tucker, taking advantage of Wash's hesitation, swipes downwards. The the bullets streaking toward his face simply fizzle and fall to the ground as they hit the energy sword.

"Oh you've got to be kidding me," Wash mutters, backing up behind a stray crate and checking his mag.  
He uses a shiny piece of metal that is attached to the base as a mirror and searches for Tucker.

Tucker is panting, heart racing. He hadn't missed seeing Wash aiming for his head. He knew the guy was trained by Freelancer to shoot to kill first, regret later. He probably doesn't even know what he's doing, just another Freelancer robot. If Tucker let him get another shot... well, it wouldn't be pretty.

Tucker couldn't let that happen.

Just as Tucker begins stalking toward the crate Wash is hiding behind, a spray of bullets flies out toward him.

"Son of a--" Tucker yelps, instinctively flattening himself to the ground. The closest bullet just barely misses the top of his armor, and Tucker can feel the heat from the round warming up the brisk air. Sweating at the near miss, Tucker lifts his head slightly-- and heard the unmistakeable sound of a mag dropping out. Now was his chance!

Tucker leaps up and over the crate, twisting in midair and swinging his sword down on a very startled Wash.

Wash raises his rifle defensively, and it's cut clean in half. Tucker rears back for another swing, but Wash automatically kicks out, hitting him square in the gut. Tucker stumbles back, and Wash uses his own momentum to pull himself up, tossing each half of the rifle to the side. Wash strikes out again, punching Tucker square in the jaw and sending him reeling backwards.

As Tucker is still recovering, Wash adjusts to the distance between them and pull a knife out, and holding it at the ready. Tucker quickly drops into his stance as well-- square shoulders, knees bent, chin up-- just like Wash had always taught him. Tucker never thought he would use it... until now.

The two circle each other, sizing up the person across from them. Tucker watching closely, Wash crouching, waiting... waiting... waiting...

There! Tucker turns too far to the left, leaving his right side open. Wash strikes out, slashing with his knife and drawing blood from Tucker's midriff. Aqua clashes with red.

Tucker groans. "Goddamn it!" he curses, quickly back pedaling. He had to get away from Wash before--

Wasting no time, Wash slashes downward, and Tucker parries.

The two fight hand to hand, dancing, spinning in the center of the canyon. Sparks fly as Wash goes in for a strike, but Tucker parries. Tucker recovers quickly and slashes at Wash's head, but he ducks and steps back.

They lunge together, both swiping with their weapons-- Tucker's is longer, but Wash was faster.

Tucker's sword slashes across Wash's upper arm, an ugly burn cutting into his skin. Wash cries out and steps back, clutching at the wound. It hurts, and Wash can only barely stem the wave of pain. In, out. In, out, he breathes, just like Freelancer taught him. Just like how he always did it after Epsilon. Just like the days of competition and torture and ruthlessness and-- something snaps inside of Wash.

Tucker steps back as well, chest heaving, victorious. He powers down his sword, grinning smugly at Wash.

"How do you like me now, motherfucker?" Tucker gloats.

But he misses the glint of sunlight on the blade that Wash keeps hidden in his boot.

He misses the look on Wash's face as the knife flies towards him-- it could only be a look of murder.

A small groan escapes Tucker as the blade sinks all the way in, the hilt hitting his chest with a loud thump.

He drops to the ground.

Wash freezes, the noise jarring him back to reality, staring at the still silhouette on the ground.

"Tucker?" he asks-- a weak, pathetic sound. "No."

Wash forces himself to run forward and kneels over the aqua soldier he just sent to the ground.

"No, no, no, no, no--" He presses down on the chest plate, and when he brings his hands up, they're covered in blood.

Wash wrenches off Tucker's helmet, and checks for a pulse, but a quick look at those lifeless, glassy eyes tells him exactly what he dreads to know.

Tucker was dead.

And Wash had won.

**Author's Note:**

> This was for a Death Battle challenge, but I kind of liked it so I'm posting it here too. Thanks for reading!


End file.
